New works of art are popping up all over the place, from the guerrilla public artwork of the ‘Naughty Spraycan’ Collective to the 150 different statues of dung by 150 different artists, commissioned by the London Arts Council. Tourists and residents alike are finding dung all over the city, and the authorities say it has increased visits to London by 15%.
Toronto art group The Donovan Family have recently completed their new masterpiece, House. This beautifully satirical work replicates an average suburban home in a normal street, complete with car in the driveway, dog in the yard and furniture, paintings on the walls and household cleaning products in the cabinets. The Donovan Family themselves are part of the installation, living in the artwork as if it were their own home.
I visited House on a quiet Saturday afternoon. ‘Mr Donovan’, the group’s patriarch, feigned confusion as to the reason behind my presence at his ‘home’, a touch I found both unsettling and brilliant. It truly evoked the sense of the art experience as a voyeuristic one, as if I was an interloper, spying on the act of creation. Similar responses from ‘Mrs Donovan’ and the group’s two child members, ‘Susie’ and ‘Tommy’, underlined this feeling.
The interior of House is just like any other homestead in any city; in a way, its function is as the archetypal house, the Platonic ideal of the mythic, perfect, idea of a ‘House-as-concept’. Cheap watercolours line the staircase wall, a scathingly brutal comment on the state of the commodification of artistic sentiment. On the other hand, photographic portraits on the living room show the Donovan Family at different points in time – the two parents as young lovers, the family unit at a point when the ‘children’ were young, recent holiday pictures, etc. This timeline of human existence reflects the house (the concept of house) as an object within time, not separate from it. And yet, the appearance of both a calendar and wall-mounted clock in this room root the house in a definite temporal location. This paradox left me both breathless and a little gassy.
The attention to detail in this work of art is awe-inspiring. As I walked around House I looked inside drawers, under beds and behind furniture. Everything was as it would have been, if this was a home owned by the mythical ‘normal’ middle-class family. The drawer beneath the cutlery drawer contains miscellaneous kitchen items such as spatulas and egg-slicers. The space beneath the bed contains dust bunnies and old jigsaw puzzles. There was a mousetrap behind the sofa. And as I found all these little details I still had the four ‘residents’ of the house shouting at me to leave, acting it up for their audience of one. This really gave me the sensation of the artist (or in this case, artists) as reluctant creator, as someone who feels compelled to create without necessarily wanting to create.
After a thorough examination of The Donovans’ House, I felt compelled to leave. Possibly this was due to my growing awkwardness at the feeling of imposition the artwork gave me. Or it could have been because ‘Mister Donovan’ had just pretended to call the police and have me forcibly removed. But either way, I left with a definite sense of aesthetic pleasure. House is a wonderful - and highly recommended – installation that I would implore everyone to see.
House is running for an indefinite period of time at 236 Davidson Avenue, Toronto (two blocks north of Westinghouse and Blanchard). It is free to enter and open 24 hours a day, so long as the Donovan family let you in.
Thursday, 31 July 2008
Monday, 28 July 2008
The Imaginary Right to Reply
It’s time for another Imaginary Mailbag! Today, I’m opening the floor to a couple of people who have something to say about specific reviews that I’ve conducted recently. Enjoy.
Sir,
When I heard that you would be reviewing the latest work by Mister Andrew Swithin, Two Irish Priests and a Transvestite Midget Walk into a Bar…, I was highly excited. Here is a writer whose talents are all too often ignored these days, and I hoped you’re your review would redress the balance. Reading your analysis of the piece, however, left me sorely disappointed. I feel that you have done Mister Swithin a great disservice with your review, and while I don’t doubt that he is more than capable of responding himself, I do not know whether he reads your website. With this in mind I am writing this letter to correct you on a few points, and I hope Andrew will not mind my doing so.
Firstly, I believe that your review is based on a flawed premise, namely that you accuse Two Irish Priests… of attempting – and failing – to work on a meta-humorous level. This, I feel, is incorrect. You compare the work to that of Rodney Ambrose (such as the famed A Punchline and a Set-Up Walk into a Bar…), but I don’t feel this is fair. Two Irish Priests… begins on a meta-meta-humorous level (in a ‘knowing of the knowing of the joke’ sense; c.f.: Etheridge’s A Humorist Walks into a Fourth Wall…), but skips down two levels by the time the punchline arrives. An added layer of humour is derived from this uncomfortable slip through the intra-joke strata, which you fail to recognise in your review.
You also criticise Two Irish Priests… on the basis of its unbelievable premise, again missing the whole point of the piece. The cement that binds the humour and the pathos is the unlikely scenario; without this, the whole thing would fall apart like a poorly made sandcastle. If Swithin had not replaced the traditional bartender with a talking giraffe, the priests, midget and even the mushroom-shaped pints of Guinness would escape their moorings and disappear into the ether before the pay-off would be able to occur. Take DeFalco’s ill-advised Knock Knock/Who’s There?/[Silence] series as an example of when the lack of an unbelievable premise creates a kind of comedic black hole. Anyone experiencing DeFalco’s work suffers such a lack of humour that anything remotely funny in the surrounding area is sucked away and is gone forever. Swithin avoids this with the talking giraffe bartender.
There were many other regretful elements to your review, such as the mistaken application of Fox’s law (which states that level of humour is proportional to the number of porpoises in the work), and your inability to differentiate between the chicken in the Crossing the Road series and the rubber chicken of physical comedy. I hope that future reviews of new works by popular joke-writers are not so poorly done as this.
Regards, etc
Sir Walter Cholmondeley
Sir,
Your review of my recent feature, The Chronicles of Hornier: Prince Asspian, was grossly unfair. You compare it to Joel Garner’s 2006 film, Butt-Loving Lesbian Love Pile 3, saying that next to this movie, my film is “left wanting, like a nymphomaniac at a eunuch convention.” In defence of my film, Garner was given a large grant by the arts council, while Asspian was wholly self-financed. In outlining the strength of Garner’s casting choices, you neglect to my own discovery of Shia LeBeef, whose career is certainly going to grow in the coming years.
I also take umbrage with your assertion that many of the scenes in Asspian seemed “tacked on”. The scriptwriter and I worked long and hard to create a story that combined exciting action, fluid dialogue and the hottest young starlets sucking and fucking. To suggest that it is “tacked on” for a character to sleep with a faun in order to extract information, or for two characters in the midst of a battle to be overcome with lust and start shagging on the battlefield, is, quite frankly, nonsense. I reject the accusation.
Despite these complaints, I am gratified to acknowledge your praise for the film’s cinematography. The use of such extreme close-ups was a matter of some debate for me, but in the end I feel that they were warranted. I’m pleased that their glistening majesty were appreciated.
I look forward to a more fair and balanced review of my upcoming release, Indiana Slut and the Kingdom of the Crystal Dildoes.
Regards,
Sir Anthony St John- Headingly
Sir,
When I heard that you would be reviewing the latest work by Mister Andrew Swithin, Two Irish Priests and a Transvestite Midget Walk into a Bar…, I was highly excited. Here is a writer whose talents are all too often ignored these days, and I hoped you’re your review would redress the balance. Reading your analysis of the piece, however, left me sorely disappointed. I feel that you have done Mister Swithin a great disservice with your review, and while I don’t doubt that he is more than capable of responding himself, I do not know whether he reads your website. With this in mind I am writing this letter to correct you on a few points, and I hope Andrew will not mind my doing so.
Firstly, I believe that your review is based on a flawed premise, namely that you accuse Two Irish Priests… of attempting – and failing – to work on a meta-humorous level. This, I feel, is incorrect. You compare the work to that of Rodney Ambrose (such as the famed A Punchline and a Set-Up Walk into a Bar…), but I don’t feel this is fair. Two Irish Priests… begins on a meta-meta-humorous level (in a ‘knowing of the knowing of the joke’ sense; c.f.: Etheridge’s A Humorist Walks into a Fourth Wall…), but skips down two levels by the time the punchline arrives. An added layer of humour is derived from this uncomfortable slip through the intra-joke strata, which you fail to recognise in your review.
You also criticise Two Irish Priests… on the basis of its unbelievable premise, again missing the whole point of the piece. The cement that binds the humour and the pathos is the unlikely scenario; without this, the whole thing would fall apart like a poorly made sandcastle. If Swithin had not replaced the traditional bartender with a talking giraffe, the priests, midget and even the mushroom-shaped pints of Guinness would escape their moorings and disappear into the ether before the pay-off would be able to occur. Take DeFalco’s ill-advised Knock Knock/Who’s There?/[Silence] series as an example of when the lack of an unbelievable premise creates a kind of comedic black hole. Anyone experiencing DeFalco’s work suffers such a lack of humour that anything remotely funny in the surrounding area is sucked away and is gone forever. Swithin avoids this with the talking giraffe bartender.
There were many other regretful elements to your review, such as the mistaken application of Fox’s law (which states that level of humour is proportional to the number of porpoises in the work), and your inability to differentiate between the chicken in the Crossing the Road series and the rubber chicken of physical comedy. I hope that future reviews of new works by popular joke-writers are not so poorly done as this.
Regards, etc
Sir Walter Cholmondeley
Sir,
Your review of my recent feature, The Chronicles of Hornier: Prince Asspian, was grossly unfair. You compare it to Joel Garner’s 2006 film, Butt-Loving Lesbian Love Pile 3, saying that next to this movie, my film is “left wanting, like a nymphomaniac at a eunuch convention.” In defence of my film, Garner was given a large grant by the arts council, while Asspian was wholly self-financed. In outlining the strength of Garner’s casting choices, you neglect to my own discovery of Shia LeBeef, whose career is certainly going to grow in the coming years.
I also take umbrage with your assertion that many of the scenes in Asspian seemed “tacked on”. The scriptwriter and I worked long and hard to create a story that combined exciting action, fluid dialogue and the hottest young starlets sucking and fucking. To suggest that it is “tacked on” for a character to sleep with a faun in order to extract information, or for two characters in the midst of a battle to be overcome with lust and start shagging on the battlefield, is, quite frankly, nonsense. I reject the accusation.
Despite these complaints, I am gratified to acknowledge your praise for the film’s cinematography. The use of such extreme close-ups was a matter of some debate for me, but in the end I feel that they were warranted. I’m pleased that their glistening majesty were appreciated.
I look forward to a more fair and balanced review of my upcoming release, Indiana Slut and the Kingdom of the Crystal Dildoes.
Regards,
Sir Anthony St John- Headingly
Thursday, 24 July 2008
Film Review: Eats, Shoots and Leaves: The Movie
Adaptations of best-selling books are all the rage, with recent examples including Brick Lane, Atonement and College Road Trip. Now, Lynne Truss’s popular Eats, Shoots and Leaves has received the big-screen treatment, and – I’m told – a tie-in video game is not far behind.
Directed by John Woo, Eats, Shoots and Leaves: The Movie stars Kate Hudson as Lynne, a young writer and pedant who uncovers a cabal of evil pandas who are plotting to take over the world. The despicable Chinese bears are planning to remove commas, insert apostrophes and place superfluous parentheses in sentences around the world in order to create anarchy and chaos. When the time is right, the pandas will seize the moment and take over the Earth, unless Lynne can stop them.
From start to finish, Eats, Shoots and Leaves is an action-packed cockroar of a film. Some of the scenes in which Lynne and her love interest (played by Shia LeBeouf) are being chased through L.A. by a rogue inessential exclamation mark are stunning examples of high-quality CGI. But this is so much more than a straightforward mindless action flick. Woo has really got the best out of his lead actors, and both Hudson and LeBeouf really convey the fear and confusion that arises when one sees the phrase “Pizza’s” on a restaurant menu. There are times when this film filled me with the same sadness that I felt when I realised my son couldn’t tell the difference between the words “effect” and “affect”.
My main concern with Eats, Shoots and Leaves: The Movie is that fans of the book may be disappointed with some of the film’s omissions. While there is an entire chapter of ES&L devoted to text speak, there is nothing on the subject in the film. Several movie websites have speculated that this is due in part to the film’s obvious sponsorship by Motorola (who must have paid for all the film’s characters to be using Motorola cell phones). Whether this is true or not, I can’t say, but it can’t have been too hard for the writers to add a scene in which the pandas say “lol” or “double-you tee eff”.
On the other hand, fans of Lynne Truss’s highly anal book will love the ending. While it would be bad form for me to divulge what happens, I can say that it involves a final answer to the long-standing war between proponents and opponents of the serial comma.
In summary, Eats, Shoots and Leaves: The Movie gets lots of stars out of a possible more. If you only see one film this year, you’re an artless philistine who shouldn’t be reading The Imaginary Review. For everyone else, this is a great way to spend a barrel of popcorn.
Eat's: Shoot's; and Leaves's:-:The Movie'll be not unreleased on august Fourth. Do'nt forget to get nacho's & frie'z.
Directed by John Woo, Eats, Shoots and Leaves: The Movie stars Kate Hudson as Lynne, a young writer and pedant who uncovers a cabal of evil pandas who are plotting to take over the world. The despicable Chinese bears are planning to remove commas, insert apostrophes and place superfluous parentheses in sentences around the world in order to create anarchy and chaos. When the time is right, the pandas will seize the moment and take over the Earth, unless Lynne can stop them.
From start to finish, Eats, Shoots and Leaves is an action-packed cockroar of a film. Some of the scenes in which Lynne and her love interest (played by Shia LeBeouf) are being chased through L.A. by a rogue inessential exclamation mark are stunning examples of high-quality CGI. But this is so much more than a straightforward mindless action flick. Woo has really got the best out of his lead actors, and both Hudson and LeBeouf really convey the fear and confusion that arises when one sees the phrase “Pizza’s” on a restaurant menu. There are times when this film filled me with the same sadness that I felt when I realised my son couldn’t tell the difference between the words “effect” and “affect”.
My main concern with Eats, Shoots and Leaves: The Movie is that fans of the book may be disappointed with some of the film’s omissions. While there is an entire chapter of ES&L devoted to text speak, there is nothing on the subject in the film. Several movie websites have speculated that this is due in part to the film’s obvious sponsorship by Motorola (who must have paid for all the film’s characters to be using Motorola cell phones). Whether this is true or not, I can’t say, but it can’t have been too hard for the writers to add a scene in which the pandas say “lol” or “double-you tee eff”.
On the other hand, fans of Lynne Truss’s highly anal book will love the ending. While it would be bad form for me to divulge what happens, I can say that it involves a final answer to the long-standing war between proponents and opponents of the serial comma.
In summary, Eats, Shoots and Leaves: The Movie gets lots of stars out of a possible more. If you only see one film this year, you’re an artless philistine who shouldn’t be reading The Imaginary Review. For everyone else, this is a great way to spend a barrel of popcorn.
Eat's: Shoot's; and Leaves's:-:The Movie'll be not unreleased on august Fourth. Do'nt forget to get nacho's & frie'z.
Monday, 21 July 2008
Stalker reviews
Being the brains behind an internationally famous Internet phenomenon, I’ve had more than my fair share of stalkers recently. “What is a fair share of stalkers,” you may ask, and you’d be wrong to do so. Here I will analyse some of the many people who have been through my dustbins in the last year.
Derek is one of the worst stalkers I’ve ever experienced. To start with, Derek rang my doorbell and introduced himself to me, saying “Hello, I’m Derek; I’m your new stalker.” Instead of sitting in the bushes outside my house, he brings a lawn chair to my front garden. He sometimes knocks on my door to see if I want any crisps. But Derek does show some promise: his ability to photograph me as I go about my daily business and then leave it in odd places in my house is uncanny. I think he could be a really good stalker one day.
One day, but not today. He scores three blood and excrement-stained love letters out of ten.
By comparison, Melinda is a great stalker. She’s as mad as a wheelbarrow of squirrels and twice as smelly. This brilliantly offbeat individual is absolutely convinced she and I were once engaged, and haunts my back garden in a wedding dress, weeping softly for a love that once was. The poetry she leaves on the doorstep is genius in its awfulness; a floppy-fringed teenager would be embarrassed to read such trite doggerel. The ubiquitous animal remains that accompany the verse are a great touch. I must admit, Melinda does tend to go a little too far in my opinion (was it really necessary to stab that girl I dated in the hand, Melinda? Really?), but in the end, she’s a solid performer on the creepy stalking stage. Eight blood and excrement-stained love letters out of ten.
Gertie is a mediocre stalker, but she has her good points. She’s immensely inconsistent, and that’s where she fails for me. Consider the fact that she is annoyingly absent on many evenings, but when she is there, her glow-in-the-dark eyes are pant-wettingly terrifying. She leaves dead mice on my doorstep, and I know she killed them herself. But quite often she comes around to my house during the day, looking for food. Honestly, this cat doesn’t know if she’s stalking me, or being neighbourly. Five blood and excrement-stained love letters out of ten.
Finally, the most terrifying stalker of all. Gordon. I’ve never seen Gordon, but I know he’s there. I can sense him, watching me, from the bushes. Did you see that? The bushes…they moved…
It could have been the wind, I guess, but I bet it’s Gordon again. He’s always there when I don’t want him to be there.
He’s never left anything outside my house as far as I know, but I’m still scared. Did I mention the time I thought I saw him on my roof? It was a raccoon, but Gordon could have been hiding behind it.
I hate Gordon. Why won’t he leave me alone? No blood and excrement-stained love letters for him.
This review was inspired by Katrocket’s blog. Thanks for the nightmares, Kat.
Derek is one of the worst stalkers I’ve ever experienced. To start with, Derek rang my doorbell and introduced himself to me, saying “Hello, I’m Derek; I’m your new stalker.” Instead of sitting in the bushes outside my house, he brings a lawn chair to my front garden. He sometimes knocks on my door to see if I want any crisps. But Derek does show some promise: his ability to photograph me as I go about my daily business and then leave it in odd places in my house is uncanny. I think he could be a really good stalker one day.
One day, but not today. He scores three blood and excrement-stained love letters out of ten.
By comparison, Melinda is a great stalker. She’s as mad as a wheelbarrow of squirrels and twice as smelly. This brilliantly offbeat individual is absolutely convinced she and I were once engaged, and haunts my back garden in a wedding dress, weeping softly for a love that once was. The poetry she leaves on the doorstep is genius in its awfulness; a floppy-fringed teenager would be embarrassed to read such trite doggerel. The ubiquitous animal remains that accompany the verse are a great touch. I must admit, Melinda does tend to go a little too far in my opinion (was it really necessary to stab that girl I dated in the hand, Melinda? Really?), but in the end, she’s a solid performer on the creepy stalking stage. Eight blood and excrement-stained love letters out of ten.
Gertie is a mediocre stalker, but she has her good points. She’s immensely inconsistent, and that’s where she fails for me. Consider the fact that she is annoyingly absent on many evenings, but when she is there, her glow-in-the-dark eyes are pant-wettingly terrifying. She leaves dead mice on my doorstep, and I know she killed them herself. But quite often she comes around to my house during the day, looking for food. Honestly, this cat doesn’t know if she’s stalking me, or being neighbourly. Five blood and excrement-stained love letters out of ten.
Finally, the most terrifying stalker of all. Gordon. I’ve never seen Gordon, but I know he’s there. I can sense him, watching me, from the bushes. Did you see that? The bushes…they moved…
It could have been the wind, I guess, but I bet it’s Gordon again. He’s always there when I don’t want him to be there.
He’s never left anything outside my house as far as I know, but I’m still scared. Did I mention the time I thought I saw him on my roof? It was a raccoon, but Gordon could have been hiding behind it.
I hate Gordon. Why won’t he leave me alone? No blood and excrement-stained love letters for him.
This review was inspired by Katrocket’s blog. Thanks for the nightmares, Kat.
Thursday, 17 July 2008
I am going away for a while.
Another blogger (who shall remain Falwless) said some mean things about me this week.
I know I'm not supposed to take it personally, but Goddammit, I'm used to universal praise. I can't take this kind of rejection.
So I've decided to go away for a while. I don't know where I'm going, I guess I'll know when I get there. And if I don't get there, I'll probably just get a beer or something. What I do know is that I won't have any Internet access.
I don't know when I'll be back, but I've future-posted some reviews for next week to keep you going, all those of you who still believe in me, you beautiful, wonderful, misguided fools, you. If you comment on my posts, I won't be able to reply for a while. But with the way I'm feeling, I don't expect anyone to say anything nice, so maybe that's a good thing.
I guess I'll see you all later.
Maybe.
I know I'm not supposed to take it personally, but Goddammit, I'm used to universal praise. I can't take this kind of rejection.
So I've decided to go away for a while. I don't know where I'm going, I guess I'll know when I get there. And if I don't get there, I'll probably just get a beer or something. What I do know is that I won't have any Internet access.
I don't know when I'll be back, but I've future-posted some reviews for next week to keep you going, all those of you who still believe in me, you beautiful, wonderful, misguided fools, you. If you comment on my posts, I won't be able to reply for a while. But with the way I'm feeling, I don't expect anyone to say anything nice, so maybe that's a good thing.
I guess I'll see you all later.
Maybe.
Wednesday, 16 July 2008
The Imaginary Investigative Undercover Review: Saint Manthing’s College for Living Statues
A few weeks ago I was away for some time, neglecting my duties as provider of hilarious reviews with slightly satirical undertones. I did not explain why you were not able to read any new material over that time, but now I can reveal my whereabouts. I was working undercover.
I shall explain. A while ago I was given a very intriguing tip-off by an acquaintance (who shall remain nameless, due to a bureaucratic error at his christening). A new school had just opened in the area, and word on the street was that there was something definitely iffy about it. The place was Saint Manthing’s College for Living Statues, and I decided to join up and analyse it with my critical eye.
My critical eye is my left eye.
Saint Manthing’s is one of those artsy fartsy educational establishments where the teachers wear flared trousers and sit with their chairs the wrong way round so they can lean on the backs. It specialises in preparing people for the cutthroat world of living statue work, training idealistic young people to stand still for extended periods of time. Optional courses are available in tableau vivant, costume design and making sure punters don’t run off with your hard earned cash while you pretend to hold an invisible bow and arrow.
I chose the deliberately-blending-in pseudonym “Katherine auf der Corgan-Hannitty-Colmes” and put my name down for their most expensive course. Once the semester began, I spent my first day in Saint Manthing’s being taught how to buy the relevant course materials, an education that I found both enlightening and stimulating. Apparently I need to hand over the cash and then I get my change. Interesting.
Upon the second day, the course was more as I had expected. My class were shown how to suppress coughs, sneezes, erections (using the ‘Joan Rivers Method’), and the urge to blink. In the afternoon, we practised our new-found techniques by acting as models for the life drawing class in the college next door. Some of my fellow students were a little bashful about taking off their clothes, but being a lithe Adonis, I jumped at the chance for some legal public nudity. So far, all seemed well.
Homework for the evening was standing still for an hour. I cheated, and only did 45 minutes. Somehow, the teachers knew and I was marked down for it.
Day 2 of my Training, and my skills are coming along nicely. Note the excellent paint job I did on myself.
On the third day of my tutorage, everyone in my class was shown a special ‘lying down’ position. This lesson was particularly memorable in that it marked the first time we were given props; most of us were handed rifles or guns of some sort, and the tips on handling the weapon authentically were invaluable. We were told that this pose was very popular in Eastern European Living Statue Festivals, and that this would be where we’d be making a lot of our money. So far, so good. The training was exceptional, and nothing suspicious had occurred at all. I was beginning to think my friend had given me some duff information.
For another week, our classes were inoffensive enough, with lessons in art history, balancing on one leg and target practice. We were taught meditation and breathing control, both of which are essential to being a good living statue. I must add a moment of personal pride here: I came in top of my class in a game called ‘Spot the Enemy Combatant’, which was a bit like “Where’s Wally?” (or, as people in the former colonies know it, “Where’s Waldo?”), but with camouflage gear. Things were going well.
Later in the month we had a careers fair, which also had nothing to arouse my suspicions. I spoke to unoriginal contemporary artists who were looking to hire living statues for exhibitions that would “subvert the traditional view of sculpture as a static, inert medium”. There were also hidden camera TV shows that were looking for living statues that could surprise old ladies who happened to be walking by. As well as these people, the fair had representatives from circuses, arts fairs, the marines and busking festivals. I got some good contacts here, should my imaginary reviewing stop paying the bills!
And so, after a month of training to be a living statue at Saint Manthing’s College, I have to say that this is a wonderful establishment with a top-class pedigree in preparing ordinary people for the lucrative and rewarding career of being a living statue. I’ve met some interesting people and made lots of new friends, from the other students to the staff, like Ms. Schnauzer and Commander Lewis.
To top all this off, I’ve been selected to take part in a student exchange, which starts tomorrow! So you may not hear from me for a while, as I’ll be putting all my ‘remaining incredibly still’ skills to the test in Iraq! They’ve even given me a commemorative rifle to thank me for my participation! They tell me that most of my time in Iraq will be spent lying down, which I can hardly complain about. How’s that for an ideal job, folks?
In summary, then, Saint Manthing’s College for Living Statues (co-owned by the American Military) is highly recommended!
Day 5: I am ready for my Living Statue assignment in Iraq.
Monday, 14 July 2008
Horoscopes
In my honest, yet immaculately-attired opinion, horoscope columns are a load of bunk, just like any other astrological pagan nonsense. The only star that has any bearing on my life is our own yellow Sun, which grants me my Superman-of-Reviewing powers and wakes me up when it’s time for elevenses. As far as I’m concerned, having Saturn in my ascendance isn’t going to affect the number of rejection letters I get from national publications, or whether people know what I mean when I use the word ‘elevenses’. But I wouldn’t be the Imaginary Reviewer if I didn’t investigate things with strict impartiality, so I will put all these feelings to one side when I conduct this comparative review of different horoscopes.
I chose several journals at random and noted down the horoscopes that lay within them. This approach rendered paying for the magazines unnecessary, and meant that I didn’t have to spend any time in the library, which smells of old people. I then compared the horoscopes with the actual events that occurred in that week. Here are my results.
Firstly, the horoscopes in The Weekly Panflute were nothing short of awful. Mine read (and I quote): “Beware of strangers bearing gifts this week, as they will all turn out to be false. An encounter with an old friend will reap big rewards in your love life.”
So, firstly, the comment about “all” the strangers bearing gifts was flawed, as only one hitherto-unknown person offered me anything. It was a man outside a bakery who was giving away small pieces of pie. Monty, the Imaginary Son, took one (his horoscope said nothing about gifts), and told me it was a highly delicious pastry. Chalk one failure to the bastard horoscope writer, who cost me a piece of pie.
The second part of the Panflute’s horoscope – “An encounter with an old friend will reap big rewards in your love life” - is not one I want to go into (and even if I wanted to, I am forbidden to do so by law). However, I will say this: If by “Big rewards in [my] love life”, the writer meant “divorce proceedings”, then it was accurate. Otherwise, nada.
Now Toronto Magazine’s horoscope looks like this: “Duh duh duh. I’m a Now Toronto writer. Duh Duh Duh. I can’t write. Duh duh duh. I smell.”
Another magazine with an inaccurate horoscope prediction was the Ontario Sentinel (incorporating the Ontario Mallard). Their prognostication was that all Aquarians (such as myself) would encounter a Level 10 warlock king with 2300 hit points, high resistance to elemental fire attacks and a weakness to lightning attacks. Suffice to say, the only creature from a forbidden realm that I met this week was Dandrax, a fifth-level elfin priest. I had to resort to using my Blade of Advancement (+5 to Power, +10 to Stamina, -5 to Sass), and cursed the horoscope throughout the battle. Ontario Sentinel: You fail.
One of the horoscope columns was quite accurate, I have to admit. It appeared in Canadian Dullard. I was told the following: “Today you will read a horoscope page. As Jupiter is in Sagittarius, I predict a lunch for you. An unexpected event will occur at some point. If your birthday is this week: There could be a party on the horizon.”
I can’t believe how accurate this horoscope was. It’s like it was tailored for me. Canadian Dullard’s horoscope writer Psychic Steve scores many points for his brilliant predictions.
Finally, What Fishtank? Magazine’s horoscope page was highly interesting, but I could give it no points for accuracy. However, it was only later that I realised I had copied out the magazine’s contents page by accident, so it was no wonder that it was so astrologically unsatisfying.
I chose several journals at random and noted down the horoscopes that lay within them. This approach rendered paying for the magazines unnecessary, and meant that I didn’t have to spend any time in the library, which smells of old people. I then compared the horoscopes with the actual events that occurred in that week. Here are my results.
Firstly, the horoscopes in The Weekly Panflute were nothing short of awful. Mine read (and I quote): “Beware of strangers bearing gifts this week, as they will all turn out to be false. An encounter with an old friend will reap big rewards in your love life.”
So, firstly, the comment about “all” the strangers bearing gifts was flawed, as only one hitherto-unknown person offered me anything. It was a man outside a bakery who was giving away small pieces of pie. Monty, the Imaginary Son, took one (his horoscope said nothing about gifts), and told me it was a highly delicious pastry. Chalk one failure to the bastard horoscope writer, who cost me a piece of pie.
The second part of the Panflute’s horoscope – “An encounter with an old friend will reap big rewards in your love life” - is not one I want to go into (and even if I wanted to, I am forbidden to do so by law). However, I will say this: If by “Big rewards in [my] love life”, the writer meant “divorce proceedings”, then it was accurate. Otherwise, nada.
Now Toronto Magazine’s horoscope looks like this: “Duh duh duh. I’m a Now Toronto writer. Duh Duh Duh. I can’t write. Duh duh duh. I smell.”
Another magazine with an inaccurate horoscope prediction was the Ontario Sentinel (incorporating the Ontario Mallard). Their prognostication was that all Aquarians (such as myself) would encounter a Level 10 warlock king with 2300 hit points, high resistance to elemental fire attacks and a weakness to lightning attacks. Suffice to say, the only creature from a forbidden realm that I met this week was Dandrax, a fifth-level elfin priest. I had to resort to using my Blade of Advancement (+5 to Power, +10 to Stamina, -5 to Sass), and cursed the horoscope throughout the battle. Ontario Sentinel: You fail.
One of the horoscope columns was quite accurate, I have to admit. It appeared in Canadian Dullard. I was told the following: “Today you will read a horoscope page. As Jupiter is in Sagittarius, I predict a lunch for you. An unexpected event will occur at some point. If your birthday is this week: There could be a party on the horizon.”
I can’t believe how accurate this horoscope was. It’s like it was tailored for me. Canadian Dullard’s horoscope writer Psychic Steve scores many points for his brilliant predictions.
Finally, What Fishtank? Magazine’s horoscope page was highly interesting, but I could give it no points for accuracy. However, it was only later that I realised I had copied out the magazine’s contents page by accident, so it was no wonder that it was so astrologically unsatisfying.
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